


All the Glory

by EA_Lakambini



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Based on a song, Cancer, Character Death, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Established Relationship, Forgive Me, Grief/Mourning, Heavy Angst, I haven't written in ages, Love, M/M, My First Work in This Fandom, No Beta, No happy ending here, they became human
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-18
Updated: 2020-04-18
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:48:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23716201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EA_Lakambini/pseuds/EA_Lakambini
Summary: Crowley doesn't know how to do this.This all still doesn't feel real to him. Cancer was something that happened to other people.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 23
Kudos: 42





	All the Glory

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic in nearly eight years, and ugh, of course I start with a heavy angst one. There’s no happy ending here, I’m sorry. The events in this story are painfully close to what I have had to deal with in the past weeks, so if it reads like stream of consciousness, that’s probably because it is. Apologies as well for much abuse of the parenthesis, comma, and semi-colon.
> 
> The plot is based on Sufjan Stevens’ “Casimir Pulaski Day”, but the events don’t quite follow the order of the verses. I also borrowed some elements from David Levithan’s “Princes”, and Kerrigan-Lowdermilk’s “Anyway” and “Two Strangers”, because my brain mushes all sorts of stuff together in crazy ways. 
> 
> Warnings: Major character death, some suicide ideation.

Crowley had thought he’d gotten used to most things that humanity could throw at him.

It’s not like he had much of a choice – first with actually being assigned on Earth at the dawn of humanity and hanging around since, and then with Hell fully cutting him off after the Apocalypse that wasn’t. Just as Adam had become human, so had he and Aziraphale, eventually.

It had taken a while to adjust, of course, as the two of them noticed how miracles became harder to do, how their wings suddenly felt lost to some astral plane beyond, how drinking sessions resulted in actual hangovers ( _that_ one had been annoying, to say the least). Once they knew what was happening, they had quickly miracled as much as they could, to prepare themselves for mortality.

(The acceptance came a little later, if he’s being perfectly honest. He has never been good with that.)

Crowley had miracled several billion pounds into his bank account and cast protective spells over his Bentley, hoping they would still hold even after the last of hellfire within him flickered to ash. Aziraphale, meanwhile, procured practically another floor’s worth of books into his shop – _honestly,_ the angel’s priorities – and filled his wine cellar with more wine than they could responsibly consume now that they had actual mortal livers to think about. It wasn’t perfect, could hardly even be called prepared, really, but it was something. And so they had managed, for nearly five years now.

But nothing – _nothing, in over 6,000 years –_ had prepared him for this. The shrill ringing of his phone, and the contrast of Aziraphale’s voice soft and shaking slightly at the other end. For a moment, Crowley remembers fire and scorched books and wet concrete and a gaping emptiness, and then realizes that _this_ is far worse.

“It’s cancer. They said it’s terminal.”

*~*~*~*~*

“Angel?”

“In here, Crowley.”

He walks over to the back room, trying not to crush the stalks of the flowers in his shaking hands. Aziraphale is sitting on the sofa, under the old blanket, and Crowley is struck by just how pale he is. His eyes are still the bluest blue that Crowley has ever known, but in the soft light of morning filtering through the window shade, they stand out starkly from the whiteness of his skin. He’s been crying, and he already looks so tired, and Crowley feels a tightness in his chest.

The angel – because he will _always_ be an angel to Crowley, Heaven’s policy decisions be damned – looks up at the sound of movement, and shuts the book in his hands, putting it aside. It’s a book of poetry. E.E. Cummings. One of Crowley’s preferred writers, but the angel doesn’t know that. Crowley didn’t even know that Aziraphale read relatively modern poetry, let alone keep first editions of it. The angel still finds ways to surprise him.

Crowley doesn’t know how to do this.

He’s spent nearly five years since the not-quite end of the world learning how to be around Aziraphale, without having to look over his shoulder for a threat from Below. Five years of learning how to live freely, how to live alongside the man he loved. Apparently there was still something new for him to learn, now.

Crowley sits down on the couch, and simply hands over the bouquet to Aziraphale. The angel smiles at him in greeting, and examines the bright yellow blossoms. Goldenrods. The morning light spills upon his neck, his shoulder blade, his upper back.

“Thank you. Did you grow these? Of course you did; they’re so beautiful, dear boy.” Aziraphale’s voice is steady. Crowley has no such luck.

“Their name in Latin means _to heal,”_ Crowley starts, and then stops as he sees Aziraphale’s smile waver slightly. Crowley wants to beat himself up for saying something so stupid. Aziraphale says nothing, just strokes the flower petals gently as he gets up to put the flowers in a vase filled with water. Crowley observes his careful shuffle as he walks, silently goes through every recent memory where he saw Aziraphale get tired after their walks through St. James’ Park, and reproaches himself for each time that he dismissed it as regular mortal exhaustion.

“I’m not going to pretend, Crowley,” Aziraphale says softly, right to the point, and Crowley clenches his hands into fists, his knuckles white. This all still doesn’t feel real to him. Cancer was something that happened to other people. Sure, with their mortal bodies now, he and Aziraphale would be approaching their fifties, perhaps, but there should still be two decades or so left. _There’s still supposed to be enough time. Time for me to make up for every single thing I fucked up when it came to you._

Crowley stands up from the sofa and follows Aziraphale, shaking his head. “Angel, there’s got to be something we can do, let’s just –“ He stops when Aziraphale gently places his hand over Crowley’s shaking one. Aziraphale is simply looking at him, and Crowley _knows_ that look. He knows now that Aziraphale didn’t call him to discuss options. And he knows that there is no turning back from this. _This is where we are now. And that is where we have to go._

“Goldenrods are beautiful flowers,” Aziraphale says conversationally, looking back at the vase he had set on the side table. “They’ve always reminded me of your eyes, my dear. How often I wanted to see them, if only you would let me.”

Crowley doesn’t know how to do this, but Aziraphale is smiling _at him_ with such understanding, and he is close and he is warm and he is _here_ and Crowley has always, always loved him.

Crowley leans in, and kisses him.

Aziraphale’s lips are soft and sweet, and Crowley swears that several galaxies explode to nothing and are reborn behind his closed eyes before he moves away. Aziraphale makes a soft contented noise and Crowley nearly melts as the angel places a warm hand on his chin to pull him in for another kiss, and another hand at his waist.

“Aziraphale, angel,” he stutters. The angel looks right at him as he pulls away, and Crowley stares into pools of ocean blue. He feels like he’s drowning (and it isn’t entirely unpleasant). This is _his_ angel. _I can’t give you up. Not to Heaven or to Hell, and not wherever humans go when their time is up._ Aziraphale shakes his head, looking at Crowley almost fondly, like he can read the demon’s mind. “Heart’s dearest, just be here with me. I’m not going anywhere right now.” His voice is so calm, so _sure,_ and Crowley can’t fathom how much more he can _feel_ with everything that is happening.

But Aziraphale is still there, holding him, and pulling him closer, so Crowley decides to stop everything else he’s thinking of and just kiss him again. He can’t stop time anymore, but he can stop letting uncertainty and fear cloud what’s right in front of him.

*~*~*~*~*

“Well, that’s officially three cycles of chemo done, at least.” Aziraphale says, smiling softly as Crowley hands him a cup of tea. Crowley doesn’t miss the slight grimace of pain that crosses over the other man’s face as he takes the tea cup, notices the careful shift of his body as he settles back onto the sofa.

“Does anything hurt tonight, angel?” Crowley asks, sitting down next to him. The evening is calm and quiet tonight, and the bookshop is dark save for the soft light from the lamps.

Aziraphale nods slowly as he leans against Crowley’s shoulder. Crowley automatically wraps an arm around him, pulling him closer. _You’re here. You’re not going anywhere – not without me._ “My shoulders are just a tad stiff, darling,” the angel murmurs. “I was in that chair for quite a long time today.”

Crowley carefully shifts his body so he can massage Aziraphale’s shoulders. He carefully feels for the knots of tension in the angel’s muscles, gently teasing them loose with his fingers. He moves up to lightly stroke Aziraphale’s neck, and silently treasures the feel of Aziraphale’s delicate pulse against his fingertips, savors the feel of softness and warmth and _life_ under his hands. He had made stars in these same hands before, and he knows that no star he ever made felt as precious as what he holds now.

“Do you remember 1941? The church of St. Michael?” Aziraphale breaks the silence suddenly, and Crowley can hear the soft smile in his voice.

“Of course, angel. Got to hand it to you, picking such interesting rendezvous points. Just _had_ to make me look like an idiot hopping down that aisle.”

“And do you remember… after?”

Crowley had driven Aziraphale back to the bookshop, and the silence in the Bentley then had felt _so_ heavy. He had followed the angel into the bookshop, then, and Aziraphale had embraced him just as he stood at the door. Crowley could remember just the briefest touch of Aziraphale’s face pressed against his neck, the light contact searing into his memory. He could remember suddenly fixating on the thick fabric of Aziraphale’s coat, how Aziraphale was so _close_ , if he could just reach out and –

“I had kissed your neck then. I don’t know if you noticed.”

“I did, angel.”

“Why didn’t you do anything then?”

“I didn’t think I could.”

Aziraphale reaches up to clasp Crowley’s hand on his shoulder. “Oh, my dear, I do wish you did. I wasn’t ready for you to leave so soon that night.”

Crowley squeezes his hand back before pressing a kiss to the angel’s forehead. “I’m pretty sure I wasn’t allowed to touch you then, angel. Then again, I don’t think I was allowed to touch you, ever. Not like you ever wanted me to.” He continues to press kisses to the angel’s temple, his cheek, his neck. “Well, ’s a good thing that I can now. I’m allowed to, right?” he murmurs, and he is rewarded with a soft moan of pleasure as he teasingly nips at Aziraphale’s skin.

Crowley suddenly finds himself on his back, with Aziraphale straddling him. He’s laughing, and he looks _glorious_. Like sunlight filtering through water, like the stardust shimmers of a supernova.

“You have always found ways to touch me, you wily serpent. Don’t act innocent,” Aziraphale laughs before leaning down to kiss Crowley. “And you know now that there are certain ways you touch me that I do adore.”

They meet in a messy heat of skin and gasps and speeding heartbeats, and for the rest of the night there is no more pain for either of them.

*~*~*~*~*

Crowley stays with Aziraphale practically every day now. He goes with him to all the doctor’s appointments, tries not to scream when they look through the scans at the end of each cycle, when they learn that nothing has worked, when Aziraphale is still _dying._

_How can they use that word like it’s nothing? Is a lifetime really enough for them to come to terms with it? When will I? I don’t know how to do this._

He goes to refill the water in the vase of flowers that they’ve kept on the side table. Today he’d brought daffodils, along with the usual goldenrods, but their bright colors seem to mock him now. He pours the water slowly, remembering another time when he had poured a far more dangerous water in a far larger container. Even then, and now, it is something that he does, for Aziraphale.

Crowley is aware of Aziraphale’s eyes on him. He goes to sit by the angel’s side, tugs the envelope containing the latest scans out of his hands.

Silence. Before, it had felt like reassurance. Now, it feels like resignation.

A soft sigh. “I’ve tried for 10 cycles now. You know the doctor said it’s not going to help much even if I take the more aggressive chemotherapy.” A shaky breath. “He said that it would be a better use of our time and effort to just try and live normally. Comfortably, whatever _that_ means.”

Clenched fingers. “So what do you want to do now?”

“Keep trying, I suppose. Until I can’t anymore.”

Crowley nods mutely, and Aziraphale leans into his embrace. Crowley runs a hand through the thinning golden-white hair, tries to hold on as the angel weeps into his shoulder.

*~*~*~*~*

Aziraphale wants to go to some Bible study that Tuesday night, at the local church just a few blocks away from the bookshop. He doesn’t explain why, and he doesn’t ask Crowley to come along.

Crowley shows up at the little room nearly half an hour late. He says nothing to the rest of the group, doesn’t even nod at the minister, but simply goes to sit by Aziraphale’s side. He keeps a hand on Aziraphale’s arm, though, rubbing small circles into the soft fabric of his overcoat. Constructing little sentences to him by pointing at words in the church hymnal on his lap, crafting a psalm for the two of them, trying to remember how it was to create something from nothing in his hands.

_The angel. You. I love. Day after day. More precious than gold. To me. Meet together. They will stay. Fresh and green. Increase the days. I. Would not let him go. Everlasting._

(Crowley still hasn’t accepted it.)

Aziraphale nods politely through much of the session, but mostly stays quiet. Except for when the minister asks for any remaining questions. Aziraphale raises his hand, and asks, “So, did God ever answer? Does she even entertain questions? If she does, that’s some character development right there.”

The minister looks taken aback and doesn’t answer, and Aziraphale just smiles.

He is _such_ a bastard, and Crowley loves him for it.

*~*~*~*~*

It’s actually Aziraphale who decides to have them move in together, that summer.

It’s Crowley who takes it to a whole other level – even now, he knows he moves so, so fast – and purchases a cottage in the South Downs. It’s a little old but with plenty of room, facing the ocean. The garden is a bit overgrown (but that’s something he can fix, he knows. It’s one thing about this, at least, that he can fix).

Crowley hands over a small golden key to Aziraphale, and the angel unlocks the gate to their own Eden.

The porch still has some creaky floorboards, the paint is peeling, and the fence is one typhoon away from keeling over. It’s strange and lonely and quiet. And it is theirs _._

*~*~*~*~*

Aziraphale settles quite happily in the cottage, filling nearly every room with shelves for his books. Even the _bathroom_ has a cabinet just for books, with a weighted glass door to protect the delicate pages from the humidity. Crowley shakes his head and amuses himself by sneaking pornographic magazines between Aziraphale’s editions of Shakespearean sonnets.

Crowley spends a fair amount of time in the greenhouse that he built near the back of the house. He keeps Aziraphale’s old armchair there, and tends to the plants while Aziraphale reads out loud to him. Sometimes he’ll play songs from his phone to a Bluetooth speaker, and defends his music choices to Aziraphale. He gets a shared Spotify account for them both, and hijacks Aziraphale’s playlists of classical music with some more modern tracks. (Aziraphale surprisingly ends up enjoying some songs from Panic! At the Disco, even though he nearly makes Crowley collapse on the floor with laughter when he refers to them as “Anxiety at the Party”.)

They continue to put small bouquets in the vase on their side table, replenishing it with what Crowley grows in the greenhouse and what Aziraphale finds in the garden. Sometimes they make a game of who gets to replace the flowers first. Crowley tries to select his flowers carefully, tries to speak through the blossoms when he himself cannot. Primroses, orange blossoms, forget-me-nots. He does not put poppies, hyacinths or lilies. (He knows Aziraphale does the same. Roses, heather, camellias, even a sprig of mistletoe that had made Crowley laugh and Aziraphale smirk before kissing him.)

_As if you need an excuse to kiss me, angel. I know I certainly don’t look for excuses anymore. Let me kiss you. One more time. And another._

*~*~*~*~*

And then one day, Crowley suddenly snaps.

He runs out to the beach after one particularly difficult day, after Aziraphale had been dealing with a particularly bad bout of nausea and had almost hit his head on the bathroom sink.

Crowley runs straight into the water, shouting at the sky.

 _This is too much, too too too much and it’s_ still _not enough for You, is it? Six thousand years that You’ve been toying with us and he never said a word against You but somehow he is still the one who has to go through this? Is this how You finally test us to destruction? How DARE You do this to him, the only true angel you ever made; just do it to me instead, let me take all the hurt from him; I’m already broken anyway from when You cast me out, and nothing can possibly hurt me more than having him suffer so much, so please, PLEASE, just let me take it, DAMN YOU –_

The sky is silent to his pleas. The sea is loud, drowning him out.

Aziraphale finds him on his knees in the surf, hands digging into the sand, the waves pushing against his shivering body. He is bent in on himself, streaks of tears staining his cheeks. The angel places a soft hand on his head, and his touch is feather-light, familiar like wings shielding him from the spray of the sea.

Crowley abruptly stands up and walks back, storms up the steps and into the cottage, and whirls around to face Aziraphale. His breathing is harsh and his shoulders are still shaking, and _damn it_ , there are still tears blurring his vision. He rubs them away furiously, and for a moment he again is engulfed in the memory of ash and smoke and wet asphalt and burning pages. _No. I won’t let this happen. As long as I can still see you. I don’t want to go back to a time when I couldn’t._

“How are you not _angry_ about all this?”

“I’m not angry. I’m scared.”

“Yes, but – “

“I’m scared of how it will end. Of going somewhere where I can’t reach you.”

“Aziraphale. I am not letting that happen.”

After that night, he does not cry. Not in front of Aziraphale, not even when he’s alone. He won’t give the angel more reasons to be frightened.

(But now, Crowley accepts it.)

*~*~*~*~*

In the evenings, they lie in bed together, fingers entwined, the slight touch of a thigh against the other’s hip, skin always touching somehow. When they make love, it is now slower, tender, more careful. They share a blanket, the one that used to be draped over Aziraphale’s sofa. It’s soft, threadbare in some places now, but it is familiar, comforting.

Crowley kisses Aziraphale before the angel falls asleep. During nights when sleep evades him, he observes Aziraphale’s sleeping form, memorizing every curve and dip and line of his body. He holds his breath as he watches, afraid to wake Aziraphale from much-needed rest, but at the same time seeking assurance that the angel will still wake.

In the morning, before he even opens his eyes, he presses a kiss to the Aziraphale’s skin. Lets himself listen to the other man’s breathing, lets himself be comforted that there are still breaths left.

*~*~*~*~*

“There’s so much out there on this earth, Crowley! Even in our own little garden, there is life, so _much_ of it _!_ Look at it!” Aziraphale laughs, the sunlight around him like a halo, and Crowley sees how angelic he remains. How he always has been so full of light and love, so much that Crowley could never keep away. Ever since Eden, he had found himself coming back to Aziraphale, before he could even explain why, and certainly after he could.

The angel runs around in their garden, laughing as he kicks up the fallen autumn leaves that Crowley had just swept earlier that morning. His shoes are untied and he has shrugged off his waistcoat, and his shirt is still tucked in but only just. He looks so vibrant and alive, and Crowley falls in love a little more.

Later that evening, Aziraphale takes his hand as they sit on the garden bench. Crowley feels something small and hard pressed into his palm. He opens it to find Aziraphale’s gold ring, and he turns his head quickly to see the angel calmly looking at him.

“Crowley, I want you to have it.”

“No. _No,_ Aziraphale. You’re not giving me this. I don’t need some goddamn memento, okay? Because you’re stuck with me, I’m not leaving you.”

“That’s exactly what I’m afraid of, my love.”

Crowley nearly chokes as Aziraphale wraps both his hands around his. The other man’s eyes are boring into his now, gold and blue meeting like sunlight on water. “Crowley… I need to know that you’ll still go on, no matter how this ends,” the angel whispers, voice shaking slightly. “And you’re right, I’ll be with you always, somehow. That’s why I want you to have it. So you don’t try to stay with me… another way.”

Crowley takes a deep breath, while sliding the ring back onto Aziraphale’s pinky finger. “I told you before, angel: wherever you are, I’ll come to you. Cancer doesn’t fucking change that. And I don’t need to keep your ring to do that.” _I’ve got you, angel. You’re not going anywhere without me, and I’m certainly not writing your goddamn elegy. Not me. I’m not writing that down._

“I’m telling you now. Don’t follow me, when I go. All right? Promise me, Crowley.”

Aziraphale looks at him so fiercely, and once again Crowley gets that feeling of drowning. Back then it had felt like bliss, floating underwater in Aziraphale’s gaze, but now it feels like he doesn’t know which way is up, where he’ll go once he runs out of air. Crowley trembles, and he can’t bring himself to answer.

But Aziraphale is waiting, and _trusting_ him with this.

“… I promise.”

The autumn night fades into the start of winter, and Aziraphale begins to fade with it.

*~*~*~*~*

Aziraphale falls asleep much earlier now. This winter evening, he had drifted off after reading just two chapters of his book. While he sleeps, Crowley tidies up the bedroom. Folds the extra blankets, takes the used tea cups to the kitchen, returns books to shelves. Mechanically, unseeing, unfeeling. Just something to do, something he can still do for Aziraphale.

He stops when he sees a card wedged between two books and the vase of flowers on the side table. It’s sturdy, thick card stock, a soft plain gray save for a simple pattern of stars on the border. He flips it open, and tucked inside is a photograph of a painting, done in the style of the Renaissance. A woman clothed in white, standing in a garden, with light shining on her. She is beautiful, but her smile is mild, not quite reaching her dark eyes. She holds flowers in her hands. Among the blossoms are goldenrods, yes, but purple hyacinths, too.

And on the card itself is Aziraphale’s handwriting. Cramped and looping and filling nearly every available space of gray. The sentences spill into each other, an outpouring of thoughts and feelings, things that Aziraphale would not say out loud, would not allow himself to feel for longer than it took to write it down and hide it away.

_I don’t want to go. Earth is where I belong and I thought I would be around longer to take care of it, watch it grow. Do you still listen to us, Mother? You didn’t answer back when I was an angel; maybe it would be different now that I’m human, now that I’m dying. He loves me still, and I don’t believe I’ve ever felt such love or joy in all my life – it feels even greater than what I felt for You. There is so much more I could have done. I thought he and I had more time, even when Heaven shut me out. He is so kind, so good, and I love him so. I’m scared. I hate myself for being so weak – for not telling him sooner, for putting him through this. He bought us a cottage, a place for him and me. A home. It’s not fair. I would spare him all this if I were braver, but I don’t think I could get by without him. It’s been a long time since I’ve tried. Mother, what happens after this? Will he know that I love him, even after this all ends?_

Crowley puts down the card, closes it, and carefully places it in the side table’s drawer. He’s done cleaning for the night.

*~*~*~*~*

In the morning, Crowley greets Aziraphale with a kiss and a book, as always. He looks the other man over, observes the slow rise and fall of his chest in the weak springtime light.

Aziraphale kisses him back softly, opens the book, pauses, closes it.

“I can’t read anymore.”

Crowley knows that he’s running out of time.

He walks into the bathroom, locks the door, and sits on the floor. His shirt is still tucked in, but the laces of his boots are untied. One drop appears on the cloth of his trousers. And then one more. And another.

Now, Crowley cries.

*~*~*~*~*

Crowley brings Aziraphale to the hospital. He knows that there isn’t much that they can do, but he doesn’t want Aziraphale to be in pain. He knows Aziraphale would still want to be among humanity, for as long as he can. And because Aziraphale can’t help being an angel even after all this, he still smiles so brightly at the nurses and doctors, thanking them for every food tray and quick check-up and bed adjustment. He doesn’t grimace when they insert the needle, only sighs when the painkillers begin their work.

Crowley tries not to look enviously at the drugs. He had promised, after all. _I’ll try, angel. But this is a whole different kind of hurt than I know how to work with. I don’t know how to do this. Not without you._

Crowley paces the room. He tucks their shared blanket from the cottage around Aziraphale’s shoulders. He irritably takes down the crucifix hanging on the far wall of the room; Aziraphale pretends not to notice. He hisses at the small bunch of flowers that was bought from the hospital gift shop. Dyed carnations, hideous. It’s nothing like the flowers they grow at home, not even close. Aziraphale tries to tell him off as he always has, but his laughter is interrupted by slight grimaces of discomfort.

Aziraphale is getting weaker.

*~*~*~*~*

At the end, Crowley is there.

Aziraphale’s hold on his hand is still firm but Crowley can feel the slight tremors passing through his body. As though it was Crowley who was slipping away. He increases his grip on Aziraphale, thinking, _if I just hold on tight, they can’t take him. He’ll be fine. I can fix this. This isn’t how it ends, I know it._

The nurse in the room takes one look at them, and walks away quickly, her head hung low. Crowley finds himself irrationally hating her. How dare she be so _resigned_ to all this.

“Darling,” Aziraphale whispers, interrupting the stream of desperate thoughts in Crowley’s mind, and Crowley shakes his head. He presses trembling kisses to Aziraphale’s fingers, his wrist. _It’s okay. I’ve got you._ Aziraphale reaches over and strokes Crowley’s cheek with his other hand, and Crowley hates himself for leaning into his touch, seeking more, always more, even when knowing how much effort it must take from the other man to even move anymore.

“Crowley, love,” Aziraphale continues, his cool fingers gently touching Crowley’s cheekbones. Crowley looks up, and sees Aziraphale looking intently at him. Like he’s memorizing him. And Crowley just wants to drown in those eyes, and never come back up again, leaving everything behind for this.

“It’s time, you know,” Aziraphale is speaking. “I… have to go. Please, kiss me goodbye, love. I’m ready,” Spoken slowly, haltingly, painfully, and so full of love that Crowley can’t stand it. He can’t.

 _“I’m not!”_ And there it is, he’s shattering in front of the angel, the love of his life, the only one who ever understood him, the only one who ever really mattered. “I’m not ready, I’ll _never_ be ready, you _can’t go_ , I can’t lose you, _no_ …” His words are all sharp-edged and jagged and messy, tear-filled and fighting and desperate against Aziraphale’s quiet acceptance.

Aziraphale moves to caress Crowley’s cheek, before his hand drops back to the bed. His breathing begins to slow, as though every breath is costing him all he has. And still, still, even then, he comforts the demon. “Crowley… It’s all right. Kiss me, _please._ ”

Crowley has never been able to deny his angel anything. He pulls himself onto the hospital bed, cradling Aziraphale in his arms. Aziraphale feels light, weighing near nothing now, and Crowley embraces him tightly, hanging on to all that’s left. If this is how it ends, then he will make it nothing but love in the end. He kisses Aziraphale’s neck, his cheeks, his mouth. “I love you, angel,” he whispers, the words spilling out between kisses. “I can’t remember a time when I didn’t love you. There won’t ever be a time that I don’t.”

Aziraphale smiles, Crowley can feel it. “And I, you. Always, Crowley. My love.” The words are soft, and his breath feels feather-light against Crowley’s lips. And then Crowley feels nothing.

The angel’s grip on his hand slackens, and his head drops to Crowley’s shoulder, still and silent, and Crowley’s world falls apart.

*~*~*~*~*

That night after, Crowley finds himself on the beach again.

He walks slowly along the shore, letting the waves lap over his shoes and soak the hem of his trousers. He stuffs a hand in his jacket pocket, pulling out a small piece of metal. It shines in his hand – the key he had given Aziraphale when he bought the cottage.

With a cry that doesn’t sound entirely human, Crowley throws the little key into the ocean. He sees just the slightest glint of gold as the key soars through the air before striking the water, glimmering like stars he had made before, stars that now have lost all brightness. _I held Heaven in my hands before. Then I had to let him go._ The key sinks quickly, the ocean greedily enveloping it in waves that take it deep under the surface, taking away what had unlocked home.

It takes and it takes and it takes, and now there is nothing left, nothing here, nothing for him.

Crowley wades further into the surf, the waves pushing harder against his legs now, almost pulling him another. He almost lets it. _It would be so easy. Drowning can’t possibly hurt as much as I do right now. And then I’ll see you again, Aziraphale. Do I really have to wait for life to stop for me? Why can’t I stop for it?_

But Crowley knows why. Oh, yes, he knows.

And so, though it takes every bit of wrung-out and wasted and despairing shred of strength he has left, he turns and walks out of the water, returning to their cottage.

Crowley closes the gate, locks it behind him as he walks up the path through the garden. The windows of the cottage, for the first time since they had moved in, are dark. There is only light from the moon tonight, and in its faint light he sees the flowers he and Aziraphale had grown together. Primroses and heather and forget-me-nots, and the slowly growing buds of new goldenrods. Crowley stops to gently pat the soil down around the tiny blossoms. By the end of summer, he knows they’ll be in full bloom, here in the little Eden that he had made with his angel.

_There is still a garden, even without its guardian, even without its serpent. There is still something like life there._

Crowley spares one last look at the night sky before entering the cottage. He had shouted at it in anger before; now he gazes up in silence, trying to find how far the moonlight can pierce in the inky blue darkness of night. There’s an ending to all of it there, somewhere, and his angel is there. And so Crowley can look at the sky with no more bitterness, but just a little bit of hope. He knows that when his own end comes, he’ll find his way to Aziraphale.

He did promise, after all. _Wherever you are, I’ll come to you._

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry again for that, dear reader. Just… going through a lot right now. A friend of mine passed away 2 weeks ago after a 6-month battle with cancer. What made things more heartbreaking was that he didn’t have a funeral (because of the COVID-19 situation, and the test results were still not available at the time of his death), and his partner of 15 years wasn’t allowed to make medical decisions on his behalf, or even to stay by his side when he finally passed (because my country still discriminates against LGBTQ+). I wanted to give them the last goodbye to each other that they were denied, hence this story.
> 
> Thanks for dropping by!


End file.
